ears soft enough to pluck
like mushrooms in softer ground.
Eat or not. To trip or to
hit and miss,
these are all decisions
along the road when a body is too hungry
to reason the next five minutes into
a division between rationale and
a stomach that would eat itself if it could.
Can you feel where the hairs stand up
on a neck, otherwise shaved, if it knew
it had touch coming?
Her mustache pricks
where lips land where
either one could not expect.
If he wore lipstick
before, no one can tell.
Someone remarked snide
at the tea party, all water and no leaf,
and hot nonetheless. Can you feel
the cry where the wet was
supposed to be?
No one knows in late August
where the you turns into me.
She had this dream, this sickening dream
where her teeth crumbled into blood.
Every time we get high she gets
to talking about her niece and
how she died on impact,
flying yards if I could spit three feet.
The hole in her heart and the tail lights,
the pink ball still bouncing against the curb.
The sex has been a stone cutters dream,
the unveiling of the work,
the sculpture, cloth whisked,
shutters flashing,
tears drying, alarms screaming
"he'll be home soon."
What time is it?
